


Snowfox

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, Fluff, Harry Potter Next Generation, M/M, Romance, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scorpius and Albus have some fun during the holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowfox

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

Scorpius is too much of a perfectionist for his own good, and Albus laughs at him while he rubs his fingers raw trying to sculpt out the fox’s head.

Eventually, Albus has to abandon his own snowman, (just a regular, three-balled thing like any normal person would make) so he can wander over. He grabs Scorpius’ hands and pulls his wand out of his pocket, casting a quick warming charm over them. Scorpius says, “Thank you,” primly, and goes back to sculpting. The gloves his father gave him are sticking obtrusively out of his pocket.

Scorpius’ snow-fox looks far too much like a real fox to be possible. But then, Albus knows he shouldn’t be surprised at the odd talent—Scorpius is inordinately good at everything. He transfigures two rocks into startlingly realistic eyes and pokes them into the head for the finale. Then he grabs Albus’ gloved hand and pulls him back—they both examine their work from afar.

“Your snowman is lopsided,” Scorpius remarks casually.

“He was born that way,” Albus answers reproachfully. “You shouldn’t judge people for birth defects, Scor.”

Scorpius laughs, which, as usual, brings a wide smile to Albus’ lips. He may not be as intelligent or artistic, but at least he’s somewhat clever and social. Albus can make Scorpius smile where none of their other classmates can, and he squeezes Scorpius’ hand as he leans in a few centimeters.

In the background, a glass door slides open, and Scorpius’ father calls, “Scorpius, do you want any hot chocolate?”

Scorpius glances over his shoulder, deciding sweetly over the dozen meters between them, “Yes, thank you, Father!”

Albus cups his hands over his mouth and yells unnecessarily loudly, “Thanks, Mr. Malfoy!”

“I wasn’t asking you, Potter,” Scorpius’ father scowls. Then he turns and closes the door again, disappearing back into the depths of Malfoy Manor.

Scorpius mumbles his usual, “Sorry,” but Albus laughs it off. He doesn’t let it bother him. Albus figures that if Mr. Malfoy really hated Albus as much as he pretends to, he wouldn’t allow Albus to spend quite so many vacations with his son. (Let alone the fact that Albus and Scorpius also tend to share the same room, sometimes the same bed, and will often walk into the room holding hands, to which Mr. Malfoy rarely says anything unless Scorpius is frowning.)

The walk across the gardens is full of trudging through snow, which is Albus’ favourite way to walk—Scorpius keeps leaning on him. When they reach the house, they shake out their boots, casting a quick drying spell and plopping them down inside. It’s a lot warmer in the house, and the ritual of peeling off clothes must commence. Albus grabs Scorpius’ scarf and works his way down Scorpius’ jacket. Scorpius grins and mirrors the effort, until they’re both back to trousers and shirts. With a glance back at their snow creations, Scorpius muses, “Let’s go back out after.”

“What do you want to make this time?” Albus inquires, leading the way to the kitchen. He can see that look in Scorpius’ eyes again, which always means something oddly specific.

“I want to make snow statues of Grandfather and Grandmother before they get home.” In the kitchen, there are two mugs waiting for them, steaming and covered in a creamy, white foam—more proof that Mr. Malfoy isn’t quite so mean as he’d like to think himself. Scorpius hands the red mug to Albus, and Albus raises it to blow away the billowing vapor.

Albus has a vivid memory of the last time he sculpted a member of Scorpius’ family, and he thinks he might still have the lump on his head. It’s not his fault if Scorpius’ mother has a particularly large chest though, and Albus just isn’t a good enough sculptor to make them more than two massive snowballs. Scorpius’ grandmother is similarly attractive, though she might throw just as mean a snowball, and thus Albus silently vows to just watch while Scorpius does his thing.

After a minute, Albus muses, “Your dad makes really good hot chocolate.”

“Malfoy family recipe,” Scorpius says casually, which means it’s something he’ll never reveal. (Until they get married anyway, which is something Albus has laughed about before in relation to getting recipes.) Licking the cream from his lips, Scorpius asks, “Do you want to go sit by the fire?”

“That depends if your dad’s in there or not.” Albus takes an extra large gulp of liquid chocolate, which goes down too quick and almost results in him choking. Scorpius steps a little closer to pat his back, eyebrows knit together. Albus shakes it off—as resilient as Potters always are. When he looks over, Scorpius is still frowning. “What?”

“I’m sorry about him,” Scorpius says quietly. “...He means well. It’s just that he loves me, and he doesn’t want me to get hurt—it’s not personal...”

Albus snorts. “It’s entirely personal and you know it. He just doesn’t like my dad. But it’s okay; that’s not what I meant. I meant I don’t want to go in there if that’s where your dad is, because I want to fuck you into the carpet and I can’t do that with him watching.”

Scorpius’ whole face lights up. He has the best laugh of anyone Albus has ever met, and Albus is exceedingly proud of himself for drawing it out again. Scorpius leans forward to kiss him over the mug, pecking his cheek so as not to spill anything. Albus turns to put his mug on the counter and carefully plucks Scorpius’ out of his delicate fingers.

Then Albus wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s waist, drawing him in for a long, languid kiss, right on the lips. Scorpius mewls into it, arms instantly sliding around Albus’ shoulders. Albus is just slipping in his tongue when Mr. Malfoy strolls into the kitchen, stopping abruptly and grumbling, “Oh for goodness sakes’, Potter—the kitchen? _Really_?”

Scorpius doesn’t disentangle himself from Albus’ arms, but he does break the kiss to say, with adorably batting lashes, “It wasn’t his fault, Daddy—I started it.”

Mr. Malfoy snorts before drawling nonchalantly, “Don’t be ridiculous; I know how much trouble that kid is.”

“That kid is right here,” Albus says bluntly, grinning in spite of himself. Mr. Malfoy just rolls his eyes at the infectious cheerfulness. He walks past them to the fridge, and Scorpius gives him another apologetic look, to which Albus reiterates, “Don’t you dare say sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“Yes,” Mr. Malfoy adds, straightening back up with a bagel in his hand. “For once Potter and I actually _agree_ on something. You’re perfect.” As he passes again, Mr. Malfoy bends to kiss Scorpius on the forehead, patting his shoulder warmly to signify that he’s not actually trying to upset anything. (Or so Albus assumes.)

As his father leaves the room, Scorpius sighs dreamily, “I feel so loved.”

Albus chirps, “That’s because you are,” and goes in to finish the kiss.


End file.
